


Cupressus Sempervirens

by page_runner



Category: Leverage
Genre: Ace!Parker, Hurt Eliot Spencer, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, No Sex, also no current politics despite the inspiration, cremation specialist!Parker, i'm sorry but you did ask for this, in the actual fic, landscaper!Eliot, landscaping/crematorium/sex shop AU, metaphorically and literally, ray of actual sunshine Hardison, sex shop owner!Hardison, this is a safe space of fluff and feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/page_runner/pseuds/page_runner
Summary: All Hardison wants to do is spy on his extremely private, kinda weird, distractingly attractive neighbors.All Parker wants to do is get a decent night's sleep in a nice box, away from living people.All Eliot wants to do is dispose of a corpse in the most efficient and least incriminating way possible.Is that too much to ask?
Relationships: Alec Hardison/Parker/Eliot Spencer
Comments: 39
Kudos: 103
Collections: 2020 Leverage Secret Santa Exchange





	1. Parker

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poppetawoppet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/gifts).



> Who dared to prompt:   
> "I apologize in advance, but I blame someone else. OT3 of your choice. One of them owns a landscaping company, the other a crematorium, and the third a sex shop. This can be as serious or cracky as you like." AND "I do have an affinity for angst, hurt/comfort, and mutual pining."
> 
> I'm not sure this is what you were anticipating tossing THAT option out there, but HERE YOU GO AND I HOPE YOU ENJOY!
> 
> Slight content warnings for blood and casual discussions of death, cremation, corpses, and also "smart" penis locks - a deeply stupid idea.

It's not often Alice Parker sleeps through a night, something she understands normal people do all the time. She accepts this, understanding that she is not normal. She’s certainly been told so often enough, but she’s also learned not to rely on the input and opinion of others. People are out for themselves. Parker is out for herself too, which is, she supposes, the most normal thing about her.

That’s why she likes dead people.

That’s why, when her phone buzzes right after she’s _finally_ dropped off, she surfaces long enough to throw it against the wall, then buries her head back under the blanket.

The phone, unlike most people who meet her and leave hurriedly with awkward goodbyes, doesn’t take the hint. It keeps buzzing.

And buzzing.

And buzzing.

Parker imagines chucking it into the cremation unit and listening to the tell-tale pops and snaps as it heats and finally explodes. It’s a much more satisfying sound than the buzzing.

The phone only stops long enough for whoever's on the other end to briefly get redirected to voicemail (if they leave one, she is not going to listen to it. Middle-of-the-Night Parker is not required to. Only Working-Hours Parker has to suffer through voicemails) and then it's happening again. 

Finally, she climbs out of the warm cocoon of blankets she’s shrouded herself in, scrabbles about with her fingers for a moment, blinks blearily at the bright, unfamiliar numbers on the screen. She’s good with numbers. She doesn’t know this one.

Decline.

_Buzzzzzz. Buzzzzz. Buzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz._

It’s not an acceptance of the call, she tells herself as she jabs the green icon. Just a more personal rejection. “Go away.”

“Hey,” says a warm, breathless voice, “ah, we met once, we’re neighbors — sorta — general vicinity anyway. I bought the ah, adult...the sex shop and—”

“I don’t want sex,” Parker informs him, because this is true, and hangs up. She does remember a tall, Black man who’d stopped in to introduce himself, handed her a box while she’d been dealing with a client doing a pickup. Somehow boxes had been switched and the client had come _back_ in sobbing and furiously dumped cookies all over her desk. Took _forever_ to get crumbs out of her keyboard.

“I said—”

Cookie Man doesn’t give her a chance to retreat. “Please don’t hang up, I swear I’m not—”

“How did you get this number?” she demands. “This isn’t the crematorium’s number.”

“Okay, so the answer to that is highly technical, and also makes me sound creepier than I am, I promise, I am not the creepy person in this situation, _that_ would be the shadowy figure breaking into the crematorium right now. I _think_ he has a body in a wheelbarrow? Do you want me to call the cops?”

Oh. Well. That’s much more interesting. Parker still has questions, but she needs her ears, so she says to the phone, “No, I’ll handle it,” and hangs up.

Freed from her talkative stalker ( _Talk-Stalk? Hmm, Stalkie-Talkie! Much better than Cookie Man_ ), she listens carefully into the dark and ignores the useless impulse to redial the number just to call him that. She remembers he had a big smile. Bright eyes. People don’t usually come in to see her grinning from ear to ear. He’d given her a name — _what was it?_ — it made her snort-laugh, whatever it was, which really hadn’t helped the whole cookie-remains confusion. _Hardon_? That sounded right. Hard-On. Fitting fake name for the owner of a sex shop. Anyway, she likes Stalkie-Talkie better. Like walkie-talkie, only creepy.

The dark tells her nothing for a moment, just the usual shifts and whispers of an industrial building. Then, the slightest squeak of a shoe. A soft-soft- _soft_ thump. Definitely not the type of noises dead people make, and it should only be her and them. Stalkie-Talkie was right. Someone else _is_ here.

Carefully she stands, eyes already accustomed to the muted gloom of her office. She doesn’t sleep here every night, or even most nights, but her apartment has thin walls, and noisy neighbors on the weekend. Plus, she likes small spaces when the world gets too big, and here there’s a plethora of human-sized boxes for her to use.

Parker slips out, pausing at the front desk to pick up the heaviest of the urns on display.

Whoever is in here with her is quiet, but not as quiet as she is, the skill a relic of her childhood, when ghosting silently across all types of floors was a necessity. Also, they probably don’t expect company, unless they’re a superstitious sort, and superstitious people tend to avoid crematoriums at night. That, Parker is certain, _is_ a normal people thing.

She hears them by the farthest unit, pressing buttons and swearing under their breath. Quietly, yes, but not as if trying not to be heard. Whoever it is, they think they’re alone. Some of her part-time techs whisper in here as well, when the units are off, at least. People are weird like that. The dead don’t care if you’re loud.

As she tip-toes closer, using the intermittent columns to mask her approach, more immediate weirdness occurs to her:

Whoever snuck in made it past her own alarm system easily. Not that hers is top-of-the-line or anything, she doesn’t have the money for that, but she did choose the system that ended up sending her for a stint in juvie, years back, as a sign of respect. Whoever this was, they were good and did not expect to be disturbed.

They — she’s getting closer, but not close enough to determine gender yet, particularly with the loose hair brushing their shoulders and the stocky build, and she doesn’t like to assume — had almost certainly killed the slumped form in the wheelbarrow and decided that a crematorium was a good place to dispose of a body...not just hide it. Someone sloppier might have just stuck it in the refrigerated storage and hoped no one would bat an eye. They were taking matters into their own hands. She likes that.

Hard-On the Stalkie-Talkie _had_ seen them, which indicated she’d need to pay closer attention to _his_ security setup. Out of curiosity only, of course.

She pauses behind the final pillar, hefting the urn. Her target has opened the unit’s door and is fully focused on awkwardly heaving the body out of the wheelbarrow. _This is why we use boxes. On a tray. On a gurney._ She rolls her eyes.

There’s a muted bell sound, which means someone opening the front door, which means someone getting past the magnetic lock on the front door — how are so many people breaking into her building tonight?

The figure gasps as they straighten rapidly, but she doesn’t hear the dull thump of a body falling, so her best guess is that they haven’t dropped their cargo. They're distracted with their hands full. She steps out from the other side of the pillar and chucks the urn as hard as she can at their head, turned back toward the door.

It connects with a dull THUNK and the figure crumples to the ground.

“HO-LY SHIT, WOMAN!” It’s Stalkie-Talkie, based on his voice, or Cookie Man, based on his appearance. His eyes are wide in what Parker’s fairly certain is awe and alarm. “I’m Alec Hardison, I’m here to, uh, rescue you?”

“Really?” Parker wrinkles her nose, and bends to check the unconscious figure’s pulse. She doesn’t bother turning him over just yet. “Why?”

“Because, I figured when you said you’d handle it, you’d be callin’ the cops, and then no cops turned up immediately, for you, a white girl, so then I figured maybe you don’t care for cops, which I am right there with ya, but I wasn’t with ya, and _then_ I rewind the security cam footage — don’t judge me,” he adds, much too late to stop her from doing just that— “ and realized you’d never left and were actually _here,_ which meant you were dealin’ with a possible murderer in the middle of the night in a buildin’ full of dead people!” He’s practically whisper-shouting by the end. What is it about this building that makes people _do_ that?

Unconscious man has a strong pulse, which puts Parker a bit at a loss. What’s she supposed to do with two living people? “You have impressive breath control,” she tells Hardison — _not Hard On, but it’s his fault, having a name like THAT_ — as she checks the other body. That one is definitely dead. “And I told you, I’d handle it. Which I am. How would you help anyway?”

Hardison reaches into one back pocket and pulls out a taser, and from the other, he produces a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs, dangling open. He grins, oddly sheepish. “I know they ain’t regulation or anything but—”

“Do they close?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, just a customer returned them without the key, so—”

“Not a problem,” Parker interrupts. “Put them on him, while I get boxes.”

“Put them — hang on, you’re leaving me?!”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re handcuffing the live one, and the dead one is dead.”

“That’s the problem! Definitely _one_ of several problems anyway!”

Corpses, in Parker’s experience, are rarely the problem other people seem to think they are. She calls up Work Parker to deal with the actual problem. “I completely understand, sir, and we’ll get it sorted as soon as possible! Just give me 48 seconds to get some things in order and we’ll have you on your way!” She gives him a bright, fake smile, turns, and speed walks away before he has a chance to respond.

When she returns, 46 seconds later, with two cardboard caskets stacked on top of a gurney, Hardison has actually flipped the unconscious intruder over and handcuffed his wrists in front of him.

He’s also hugging himself and pacing back and forth. “That’s Eliot!” he announces.

She finds the light switch, flicks it on. “Oh. Angry Tree Man.”

Hardison stares at her with those big eyes and she skitters her own gaze back to the bodies on the floor. “What? He yelled at me about killing the tall tree things out front.”

“The cypresses?” Hardison calms down remarkably quickly when refocused, she notes. “They ain’t dead.”

“I yelled at him that if he cared so much he could water them himself. So he did. Does.” And sometimes she fingers the leaves or needles, or whatever they are, when she passes by, enjoying the slightly spiky feel of them, warm in the sun. Not that she’d tell the A.T.M. that. 

“The man waters your plants and you don’t know his name?”

“He doesn’t know mine either. We’re not friends,” she gestured to the dead body and the surprisingly intact urn beside him. “Obviously.” _I should add “durable” to the description of that urn. Might sell better. People are always dropping them in movies, getting ashes everywhere._

“What do we do with…” Hardison waves his hands at the whole situation in front of them, which, she’ll admit, is a little more pressing than the marketability of an urn.

Parker bends to inspect the corpse Eliot brought with him. His face is unfamiliar, but his hands… She frowns, pulls down the collar of his shirt to check his chest. “Russian mafia.”

“ _How do you know that?_ ” If Hardison's hair was longer he'd be pulling it, but instead he drags his hands down his face, which looks exactly as stupid.

 _Because I ran with a crew of car thieves that sold to just about every organized crime group in town?_ “Mafia guys end up dead pretty often,” she tries.

“Oh. Right.”

 _No, not right, I’m a cremation specialist! I don’t conduct autopsies, or embalm people, or reconstruct them_ _!_ Parker bites back her frustration. Better he stays uninformed on the finer points. “Pick his feet up.”

“What?!” Hardison’s own feet take him several stumbling steps backward.

Sometimes, Work Parker has to talk slowly and explain everything in detail because grief makes living people stupid for some reason. She doesn’t think Hardison is grieving. Jury’s still out on stupid. She takes a deep breath. “Do you want to keep seeing a dead body or do you no longer want to see it?”

“Oh, uh. Option B. _Please_.” Then it dawns on him: he’ll be helping. “Oh god.”

But he does it. They put Eliot inside the other box for easy transport and to limit the amount of blood he’s got on him getting anywhere else. There’s usually very little blood involved by the time a body gets to her, and she’s trying to remember how much is excessive for someone who still happens to be alive. She tells Hardison where to find cleaning supplies, while she takes the gurney with Eliot and the dead mafia guy to cold storage, quickly writing a sticker for the second box and loading it onto a shelf. None of the techs are due in until tomorrow afternoon — or today afternoon by now — but just in case.

“Do you think Eliot’s mafia?” Hardison asks, meeting her and her remaining cargo in the lobby. He’s loaded the cleaning supplies into the now also-clean wheelbarrow. “I kinda feel bad handcuffing him otherwise.”

She shrugs. “He’s not advertising it with ink. Might be a freelancer. Landscaping _would_ make a great cover.”

“Is that a joke?” He throws up his hands and drops them again, making the gesture completely pointless. “No, no, you’re definitely serious. Why would that be what comes to mind? I mean, you’re not wrong, just, very, uh, crime-aware? Oh wait!” The hands are pointing at her now, something she’s spent most of her life trying to avoid. “True crime podcast buff, am I right?”

 _Maybe, if I just let him keep talking, he’ll make up answers for all his own questions_ _._ “Uh yep! Can’t get enough of them. _LOVE_ them,” Parker babbles, hoping she’s hitting the correct amount of enthusiasm.

“Then you know we are definitely covering up a murder here right? Like you seem like you know that but…”

“If you’re worried about that, then why are you here?” _Hang on…_ “Why _are_ you here?” She stops walking. “How did you know someone was sneaking in?”

Hardison clears his throat, shuffling his feet a little. “Security cameras. I’m trying to train an AI to classify moving objects, but only significant ones, not like a dog — though actually if anyone lost a dog, I should be able to set parameters for it — basically teaching a computer to watch hours of footage, instead of you having to do it.”

“Why bother?” she asks, trying to ignore the sudden hammer of her own heart. _He’s watching me. He’s set up an automated system to watch me._ She’s not sure if that’s the intent, but it’s too close for comfort. _He’s a creep who owns a sex shop and spies on me with what has to be high-end cameras, to have that range and escape my notice._ Maybe she should start listening to true crime podcasts, if her warning signs are that badly calibrated. _I’m going soft_. _I went straight and I turned soft._

“Hey, you okay? Cause we seemed to be goin’ somewhere, but we’re kinda stopped in front of the main door, and I really do not know what the plan is here.”

She doesn’t either, just that she suddenly doesn’t want him in her office. It’s hers. It’s safe and it’s _hers_ , and she’s abruptly aware of the box — identical to the one Eliot the Landscaper is in — sitting behind her desk filled with a blanket and pillow. “I —”

“Ah shit. I freaked you out, didn’t I.” She turns back to look at him, holding herself very still and ready. She’s seen the switch flip before. Many times. She should run now — NOW — before it happens.

But Hardison is stepping back, putting distance between them, his hands up in the air. “Oh shit, the taser —” He reaches back behind him.

Parker rises onto the balls of her feet in preparation. Three escape routes, though one is past him, best through her office, there’s a vent—

Out comes the taser, but he’s pinching it, holding it away from him like it’s a stinky sock, and then he tosses it gently to her. She catches it, almost without thinking about it, only registering how warm it feels in her hand. “I _will_ probably scream if you actually shoot me with that, just sayin’. I am _not_ a badass.” He puts his hands back up.

“I don’t like being spied on,” she says, gripping the taser.

“I’m sorry. You’re right and that’s completely fair — you an’ most of my clientele don’t like bein’ spied on, unless they got a kink about it, which, if so, cool. My nana always says ‘normal is what works for you.’”

 _Normal is what works for you_.

“...I swear I didn’t mean to spy on you,” Hardison says as Parker’s world spins around those words for a few eternities. “I just get excited about tech and forget to think about how people feel about the tech. My bad.”

“I don’t usually think about people at all,” Parker offers, carefully, to the person facing her, his hands still raised to show her he means no harm. The box beside her groans softly, reminding her she has _another_ person to think about. _This whole night is bad choices._ She makes another one by pushing the gurney forward and brings them both into her space.


	2. Eliot

Eliot wakes with a slice of fire in his gut and a distinctive throb in the back of his skull. At some point earlier tonight, he’d believed the worst thing the late hours held was an overabundance of paperwork. Now two people have tried to kill him, and he’s only eliminated one from the equation. _Just like the old days. Fuck, I got soft_ _._

Some soldiers — the ones still living any way — go home when their tour is up. They go to school, join the family business, work security or other job, use the offered discounts or don’t, accept the intermittent proffered gratitude or don’t, depending on their nature.

Others realize just how suited their nature is to what they’ve been doing. They get promoted, or transferred, or find that there are people out there willing to pay handsomely for them to do it in...not quite officially sanctioned ways. Less of them go home again, but some do. Pull on a civilian life that smells of storage and mothballs and never quite settles right around their shoulders any more.

Others disappear. They’re heard _of_ but not _from._ They go dark, and the work they do is dark, and people they do it for have deep pockets in which to hide their bloodstained hands. These soldiers do not go home again.

Eliot’s not an exception to that rule, not really, though he is closer to home than anyone else he knows who’s walked a similar road. He has no intention of closing the extra thousand mile gap, just to tell his pa that he was right all along, that his son was a fool to sign up in the first place, that he went too far afield to ever truly come back home, but… Unlike most, he’s got honest work now. Civilian work. He’d wanted his hands covered in dirt, not blood, and he’s made that happen.

Well. He thought he had. Current circumstances indicate otherwise.

There’s muffled voices outside the close darkness he’s currently in. Aside from the paper, wood-pulpy smell of it, there’s no other features he can distinguish. His hands are...bound? Handcuffed would be his best guess based on the tension and _chink_ when he pulls at them, but they don’t feel quite right. He catalogues that incongruity alongside the smell to be slotted in later, once he has more of the edges of this puzzle established. _Focus out, not in._ Nothing he can change about in.

“...don’t have anything against combining tech and sex together, y’hear, just smart stuff is often so _dumb_. Some company made this chastity thing, locks on your dick with a metal ring and it won’t come off without putting a password into an app.”

Eliot’s head hurts. A lot. He doesn’t quite remember why, which means a likely concussion, and currently he’s clinging to the promise of head trauma because the conversation happening outside of whatever the fuck he’s inside of is too surreal to be _real_. Aural hallucinations aren’t uncommon with head trauma, or PTSD, and he’s too pragmatic to be in denial about his relationship with both, but this a weirdly specific subject to be inventing, _brain_.

“People lock their penises up? Why?”

_Why indeed. Also Who? Where? How? And most importantly WHAT THE FUCK is happening?_

“Plenty of reasons, some healthier than others. Trust is a big one — in a good way, see, like it demonstrates trust to give your partner the key to your ah—treasure.”

Male voice, fast-talker, sounds young. _Wait_.

“Anyway, it’s not the idea that’s the problem, it’s the execution. App crashes, boom, you’re cock locked. Not to mention it’s an unsecured API, can you _believe_?? I could hack that in my sleep!”

 _Fuck, it’s the hyperactive hot guy. Hardon. NO. HardISon. Man who runs a sex shop has no right to that name. Ain’t fair... Fuck. No. Not Fuck._ Definitely do not fuck, Spencer _. You work next to him, this_ will _get messy, he_ will _ask questions, you_ will not _be able to disappear, and you_ are not _safe._

_Don’t do this to him._

It’s almost become a mantra the past few months, running through his head every time he catches a glimpse of him, and a useless pile of words every time the obsessively friendly man attempts to talk to him, his long fingers hooked through the chainlink dividing their properties, and Eliot short-circuits, imagining those fingers in his hair.

He’s accustomed to crushing on women. He doesn’t have a script, but he does have a roadmap, knows how to get to where he wants to end up. He’s good at handling it smoothly, arranging a good time for them to enjoy each other until he needs to cut loose, to keep them both in one piece. Sure, he’s had a few times with guys, but those were all impulsive flings comprised of adrenaline and mutual desperation in the face of too much violence and blood. Too many of them killed before anything more can develop. He’s never been fucking blindsided by a man. Especially not one he works next to and thus is off-limits for security reasons.

“Quickest way through would be a bolt cutter or angle grinder, which is fine, I guess, but lacks finesse. Might sever the penis.” There’s the female voice, extremely pragmatic. _This is a very specific nightmare._ At least he’s not thinking about Hard— _no wait, nevermind._

“HNGK.” says Hardison. Eliot silently agrees.

“Is it possible to pick? There has to be a mechanical access point somewhere.” _Waiiiit._ “Do you have one?” It’s Cypress. Not her actual name, Eliot’s never bothered to ask her name after her stringent response to him telling her she was killing those two lovely Italian cypresses out front. So, he just thinks of her as Cypress. _Cupressus sempervirens_ if he’s having the kind of day that calls for a litany of latin binomials, muttered under his breath to keep himself centered. Not that he does think of her all that much. Just while he’s caring for those trees every few days. Cypresses need full sun, and these were planted in a good spot for it, but it meant the earth dried out quickly in the warm months.

 _I’m pretty sure they’re due for a watering. Last time was Wednesday and it’s…_ his brain scrambles for a date, misses the mark, and supplies him with his earlier activities tonight instead.

Finally it adds up:

Russian Mafia _plus_ bowie knife _plus_ Eliot getting soft, thinking one of his people had just come back for something they’d forgotten. _Plus_ fists _minus_ a fuckin’ chainsaw he’d grabbed, then had to cast aside because it would be too messy to clean... _plus_ a power cord _plus_ a bared throat _plus_ a sudden dead weight _plus_ blood _plus_ duct tape _plus_ a wheelbarrow _plus_ the need of a quick and easy disposal method that didn’t involve his own equipment just in case it comes back to him _equals_ a hell of a night.

Which is Friday, by the way. And he’s certain there’s still some details missing, like why he’s in what he’s pretty sure is a human-sized cardboard box. Ohhh. _NO_.

Eliot groans. He rethinks the sensibility of this immediately, but the sound is out and at least it has stopped _that_ traumatizing conversation dead in its tracks, so he takes the opportunity and forces himself upward, to face whatever the fuck is going on head first, before it can mess with him any further and possibly incinerate him.

Okay. So. Bad idea. Very bad idea.

The most useless feature of a concussion is the way it fucks with judgement. Makes it too easy to forget or disregard important pieces of information, like sliced muscle tissue, like pins and needle legs, like scrambled equilibrium.

Very scrambled, apparently, because he’s suddenly much taller than he’s ever been able to claim and before he manages to reconcile that fact with reality, he loses his balance and falls far backward, crashing to the floor.

“OH FUCK MAN!”

“Whoopsies.”

“Gnk,” Eliot manages, but that’s about it until his lungs decide to start bringing in air to replace the supply they just forcibly expelled.

“Yeaah, we should’ve moved the box off the gurney, but to be _fair_ , we really did not expect you to just burst forth like that,” Hardison says from somewhere that sounds much farther than he likely is.

Eliot’s lungs finally remember their function in life, and he drags at the air desperately, seeing stars. Hands grab his bound wrists and pull him upright, which turns the room on its axis and pisses him off. “Get off!” he snarls, pushing backward, and sits down hard on his ass in the wheelbarrow.

His wheelbarrow.

Which had, at some point earlier tonight, held a body.

A body he put there.

A body that is no longer there.

“ _FUCK_.” He closes his eyes, waits for the centrifuge of his reality to slow.

“Good thing you moved the urn,” Hardison says, quite casually, to Cypress _._

_Okay, might need her actual name, if I’m gonna charm her into giving me back my corpse._

“It’s a nice urn, and his skull didn’t dent it at all, so no reason not to sell it. I don’t think there’s any rules like there are for coffins.”

“There’s rules for coffins?”

_Do these people have any normal conversations??_

“Can’t be reused. Unless they’re rentals.”

“You know what, we can stop there, I am good with that level of information, and I do not say that often. Hey, how you feelin’ man?” Hardison reorients as quickly as a soldier on a room sweep. “Like Parker said, that thing’s solid, and she’s crazy strong.”

 _Parker_. Not binomial, but it’ll do.

She watches him warily, holding something black and boxy — _taser_ — out in front of her. So probably a _no_ on the charming then.

“What —” the word cracks, shattering against his teeth. He coughs — _fuck_ — clears his throat — _ow_ — tries again. “What am I doin’ here?”

“That’s more somethin’ you’ll need to tell us, rather than the other way around.” Hardison still sounds friendly, but there’s a warning edge to it now, which Eliot definitely feels he deserves. That edge also turns his insides out more than his attacker’s knife had earlier, which Eliot does not feel he deserves.

His brain struggles, like that time in freshman year when Amy broke her wrist on July Fourth and begged him to drive the team in the parade, and he knew horses all right, but they didn’t know him, and they expected Amy or her pa, but instead they got this short, scrawny, only-on-the-football-team-because-of-sheer-pigheadedness teenager, guiding them through a crowd of bright waving flags, cheerful firecrackers, and other horsey horrors. He’d barely held them, trumpeting and plunging, his arms shaking from the strain.

“I…”

There’s too many factors, too many things that can go wrong here, and too many outcomes that end up with any and all of them dead, just when he was starting to relax into the idea he might live long enough to enjoy the experience of it.

“Your mafia corpse is in cold storage,” says Parker, into the stretching silence. “You know, there are plenty of ways to dispose of a body using your _own_ equipment.”

This is a fair point, and normally something he’d have done, if a perfect body-disposal solution hadn’t been _right across the street_. “Sorry t’ impose upon your hospitality,” says his mother, in a brief haunting. “I—”

“Have a lot more blood on your shirt than you did when we stuck you in that box, Eliot — do you go by Eliot?” Hardison asks, his face creasing with concern. “Are you okay?”

Eliot’s an expert at being okay, and also he’s got some very specific fantasies he will _not_ be indulging that encompass those eyes and that question, so he ignores it completely. “Eliot’s fine,” he growls, efficiently answering both. There are people who call him Spencer, but he still can’t hear it without hearing the orders marching behind that name. “Hardison right?” he tries carefully. Casually. “And Parker?”

“Sure, Hardison’s fine. Or Alec. Grew up with another Alec and an Alex, so we needed a way to differentiate and Nana just called us…” Eliot loses the rest, crashing up against the mental barrier of acquiring his first name. Which he will _not_ be using.

“ _Hardison_ ,” Parker says, exasperated by the barrage of words. “Yes. I’m Parker.” She doesn’t provide a second name, first or last, but she also doesn’t seem to require one. Eliot, briefly, imagines being _just_ _Eliot_ as if losing his last name would lose the past claims to it.

 _Focus._ “You didn’t call the cops?” he asks Parker, who is efficient and direct and therefore a relief.

“We ain’t fans,” Hardison answers, also managing to qualify as a relief, despite the fact he’s talking again, “but we also ain’t fans of people who cart around corpses in wheelbarrows and avoid extremely reasonable questions, like _are you currently dying?_ ”

 _I’ve been going about this all wrong. The more I have to talk to him, the more I want to strangle him._ “Why do you care?” Eliot snaps. He’s tired and confused and feeling the fact that he’s been retired from this shit for a few years. He can’t see a way out of this, and he can’t understand what these two strange people want from him, and he’s still wearing fuzzy pink handcuffs, for fuck’s sake.

Hardison makes the mistake of reaching for Eliot’s shirt. Eliot grabs his wrist in both hands, twisting it back toward his elbow, before he completes the threat assessment and remembers Hardison isn’t one. Has never been one.

“Fuck off.”

Hardison stumbles back as Eliot shoves him away. It’s going to suck, heaving himself out of the wheelbarrow, but he needs to get out of here. Needs to clean up the mess back at his place before his staff gets there. The tick of seconds from the clock on the wall above him feels like a stopwatch with the time running out.

“It’s fine,” he says to both of them to defuse the situation. Hardison’s rubbing the wrist he twisted, and he feels more guilty about that than about the corpse he made earlier tonight. “I just need more duct tape. Maybe some super glue.”

“Are you fucking serious right now? What is wrong with you?” Hardison stares at Eliot like he’s insane or at least not to be trusted around sharp objects or heavy machinery. Which ironically, are two things Eliot’s extremely qualified to be around, unlike, apparently, _people_.

“Damn right I’m fucking serious! I don’t know what you people are expecting, but the guy tryin’ to kill me tonight acted less bizarre, and I ain’t done cleanin’ up that mess, so I’m gonna go handle my shit. Stay the fuck out of my way.” He needs to stand up, to prove he’s not weak, and he can, he _can_ , but there’s Hardison back in his way. “ _Dammit, Hardison_ _!_ ”

Hardison sticks out his hand. Same one Eliot just bent back not quite to the point of breaking.

Just. Offers it.

There’s no subterfuge. No hidden skills masked in a distinctive stance, nothing waiting behind his eyes, nothing except a certain set of stubborn righteousness in his jaw, something Eliot once understood implicitly.

He swallows his guilt and cautiously accepts the offered hand. Hardison easily pulls him to his feet. Steadies Eliot, once he’s there, with a friendly grip on his shoulder, as the room spins loosely again and settles.

He can’t quite meet Hardison’s eyes yet, so Eliot looks past him to Parker, and then past Parker to the door behind her as it silently opens and one of the Butcher’s men wraps his arms around her neck and points a gun — _an SR-1 Vektor, 18 rounds, no safety, except on the grip_ — to her temple.


	3. Hardison

He’s _little_ , okay? Dude’s little and cute and angry, like that terror of a kitten Alec found out behind the shop a few months back. He couldn’t keep the creature — allergies — but he drove it all the way over to Nana’s, sneezing, nursing scratches, and trading yowls back and forth, like he was gonna win _that_ argument. The current batch of kids had immediately laid claim to it, named it Krueger, and lavished so much attention on it that now he screams if you stop pettin’ him… Fuck, he’s off track.

Right. Anyway. Grumpy dude who always yelled at him from the other side of the fence and hurried off every time Alec tried to say hello? His head barely clears Alec’s shoulder. He can feel Eliot’s unsteadiness the moment he pulls him up.

Alec, extremely briefly, wonders how Eliot would feel about being petted, especially that _hair_ — but that fantasy is rudely interrupted by Eliot shoving past him, and Alec spins around to see some dude _with a fucking gun_ using Parker as a human shield.

The world stops making sense. He’s all error messages and unplugged wires and that weird off-key dial-up noise from his childhood. He’s useless. Parker, absolutely still, looks calmer than he feels.

Eliot _condenses_. Alec’s sure there’s a better word for it, because that one sounds much stupider than what’s happening in front of his face, but it’s the only word coming to his dial-up speed mind right now.

Eliot, meanwhile, has stopped swaying and seems completely unconcerned by the blood dripping on the floor at his feet. “Didn’t expect you to be a babysitter. Shoulda stayed in the car, Sergei.”

“I had to see how my partner was getting on. He’s new.”

“He’s dead.”

Sergei shrugs like that’s no great loss, the gun shifting with him. Parker’s eyes stay locked on Eliot. Alec, standing behind him, wonders if he should move, cause a distraction, _do anything,_ but he’s blank and sick with indecision. “He was foolish, wanted the bounty for himself.”

“Walk. Away.” Eliot’s voice is a snarl.

“That’s what you thought to do, yes? Walk away? What do you Americans call it? A ‘career change?’ You cannot change, Spencer.”

“No,” Eliot says, a healthy dose of regret in his sigh, “S’pose that’s true. Parker, I ain’t gonna let anything happen to you, okay?”

Sergei laughs. “Says the man with a trail of bloody footprints.” Alec wonders if he means that literally (which is definitely accurate) or figuratively (which, based on a rapidly accumulating pile of truly disturbing context clues, is also accurate). _And what exactly have you gotten yourself into Alec Hardison?_

Eliot ignores Sergei. “Remember to water that western cypress,” he tells Parker. “It gets more sun.”

Parker gives him a tiny nod of her head, then _drops_. Sergei’s not expecting this, and neither is Alec, who’s listening for a bang, looking for blood and brains, but it’s just her, somehow rolling clear at the same moment Eliot slams forward, catching Sergei’s gun hand in his handcuffed ones, and twisting, same as he had with Alec’s earlier, except this time he finishes the threat with a wet snap. Sergei screams as the gun clatters to the ground and Eliot kicks it, sending it spinning to the far side of the room. He slams Sergei up against the wall, one arm barring across his opponent’s throat, as he scrabbles and scratches at Eliot’s face.

“Keep doin’ that and I’ll break your fucking trachea.”

His snarled threat sounds terrifying, but Alec’s not entirely sure Eliot can hold a dude with at least fifty pounds on him, who also happens to not be hindered by fuzzy pink handcuffs, for much longer.

“Here,” says Parker in Alec’s ear, and hands him a phone. “You like tech.” He does like tech, though this is hardly the time for it, and he has no idea where it came from, but Parker disappears from his side before he can ask, and reappears next to Eliot, grabbing his bound hands to keep them still as she fiddles with the cuffs.

_What the fuck were you thinking, putting those on someone without a key? Safety first, Alec!_

Sergei uses the opportunity to shove forward. Eliot smashes his forehead into the Russian’s nose, breaking it. They both stagger, Eliot dangerously off-balance, catching himself on the edge of Parker’s desk. With one hand. The open cuff dangles from his left wrist.

Parker had gotten him loose.

Eliot kicks Sergei in the chest as he recovers, driving him back up against the wall, and wraps his right hand around his throat. He does some sort of flick-twist with his left wrist, catching the open side of the dangling cuff in his fingers. Holds the jagged curve up to Sergei’s eye. “Fuck off, or regret it.”

“And you think that will be the end, Spencer? You think _he_ won’t send more? Your past is your future.”

The phone in Alec’s hand is getting slippery with sweat from his palms. He presses the power button by accident, notes the pin code waiting to be entered. Some inane part of him presses 1-2-3-4, just to see what happens.

The phone unlocks is what happens.

“Oh, for real? Your pin is _that_ simple? My nana could guess that and smack you upside the head for bein’ such an idiot.” He’s only vaguely paying attention to the string of words coming out of his mouth. Now that he’s in, he’s got everything. “Man, this must’ve been a boring stakeout. You logged into YouTube, into Netflix, checked your email...hey there’s a message from your mama and from your bank! Lemme just reset your password… Did you use your mama’s name as your security question? Aw, ain’t that sweet. I mean, not for you…” Alec glances up to find them all staring at him. “Uh. So. Just to review, I’m currently in your bank account, and also your address book, aww, you called your mama too? You _are_ a considerate hitman, you know that? Maybe I’ll give her a call back, see how she’s doin’ with you over here in the States.”

Eliot’s staring at him with a surprised, gleeful sort of awe that sends heat coursing through Alec’s body. He still has Sergei pinned to the wall, but neither of them seem as concerned about that as what Alec’s going to say next.

“Look, I don't really know y’all’s history, and I don’t care. Seems to me, Eliot here made a choice to leave your, ah... organization, and he’s got a right to make that choice. And before you go arguin’ with me, you’ve got a choice here too, Sergei. You too can walk away.”

“I’d run.” Parker’s voice drips poison. It shouldn’t turn him on, but apparently he walked away from sense the moment he decided to get involved. She picks up the taser she must have dropped when she’d been grabbed. Now it’s pointed at Sergei and Eliot. Which would probably not be great for Eliot, but Hardison’s not entirely sure Parker’s factoring that in.

“I-I mean it. We can do this the easy way, or—”

“Let me guess. The hard way?” Sergei manages derision even with a broken wrist, nose, and the threat of the same happening to his windpipe, which Alec has to admit is pretty badass, but also deeply stupid.

“Or I track all your financials from the bank account, wreak havoc on your boss’s entire operation, and call yo’ mama to tell her what a naughty boy you’ve been.” He’s not particularly proud of the last threat, but the dude held a gun to Parker’s head. Girl didn’t deserve that, so it’s justified in Alec’s book.

Sergei stares at him, probably weighing the likelihood Alec can actually do it or if he’s bluffing. Alec isn’t bluffing, okay, not about the first two threats anyway, but he also hasn't really needed to demonstrate his actual abilities yet. In a weird way, Sergei’s made this too simple.

Eliot growls, not even bothering with words.

“What’s the easy way,” the Russian finally grits out.

“You go back, tell your boss it was a dead end, wrong guy, bad intel, whatever. Make it convincing. I’m in now. I don’t need this —” he waves the phone “— to ruin your life. If _anyone_ shows up here, looking to cause Eliot trouble, I’ll know who to blame.”

The awe is gone from Eliot’s face, and Alec can see his shame writ large among the wreckage, before it too is quickly buried. Not fast enough to evade Alec, who’s seen the same expression on too many kids, and plenty of adults, all taught their needs and wants were invalid or wrong.

 _Who failed you so badly? I need t’give them a piece of my mind._ “We clear?” He can hear his own anger, feel it vibrate in his chest. It doesn’t feel good, but it does feel right.

“We are not the only enemies he’s made.” Sergei points out.

“Yeah, well, now he’s got friends.” He carefully doesn’t look at Eliot’s face, just lobs the phone at Sergei, who catches it awkwardly.

“Easy way, then,” Sergei sighs, giving in. Maybe too easily?

“With the face I just rearranged?” Eliot asks, the tough guy again by the time he faces Sergei.

He shrugs. “Rough part of town. Americans and their guns. I swear. I sell it.” To Alec, he sounds like the bullies who promise to be good when they get caught and are waiting around the next corner two days later. He’s never just counted on the changed heart of a bully though. And Alec’s already planning a few reminders to ensure Sergei keeps his word.

But Eliot says, “Go on then,” releases, and shoves him out of the office. He stands in the doorway until the front door beeps as it’s opened and shut again.

Alec’s expecting him to fall over or at least grip the door jamb for support, but instead Eliot whirls around with a wide grin. “That was some damn fast talkin’ man!” He sticks out his hand and Alec, relieved, gives him some skin, slapping palms twice, then closing his fist. Eliot bumps it, eyes bright. “Thanks.” His cheeks are flushed and Alec can feel the blood climbing in his own, his heart uncertain where this rollercoaster of a night is headed next.

Parker watches both of them from off to the side, slightly bemused. “Parker!” Alec calls, heart still racing, “Girl, how the hell you’d do that? You an’ Eliot psychic or somethin’?”

“He told me go west, I went west.” Parker shrugs like this is so obvious that it takes Alec’s brain a moment to play back the tape and realize that’s what the whole “western cypress” thing had been about. Hell, he doesn’t even know which way west is when he’s _outside_ , much less in a building. 

“Didn’t expect ya to wriggle out like that,” Eliot remarks. “ _And_ lift his phone. Where’d you pick that trick up?” He seems oddly more comfortable with Parker’s help than Alec’s, which Alec can’t decide is a stupid macho thing (unlikely), or if it’s just that Parker is handling all this with more aplomb than any sane person would have at this point and it's comforting, in a deeply weird way.

“You’re not the only one with a past,” Parker says simply, and Eliot nods in acceptance, which means Alec has to as well, though he has. So. Many. Questions. “I’ll handle the other one. Do you want the remains? I can leave them unpulverized if you need to send a message.”

Okay, more questions, but now he’s not so sure he wants answers after all.

“Much obliged,” Eliot tells her, his Southern drawl hitting Alec hard. It’s gotten more pronounced the longer they’ve been standing here, like another part of Eliot’s façade is slowly eroding. “But I’ll dump the ashes after I leave town. Thanks, Parker. You ain’t so bad for a tree killer.”

“Yeah, you’re not so bad for someone who’s still breathing.” She smiles at Eliot, but everything they’re talking about is finally scrambling over Eliot’s accent and Parker’s use of “pulverized” and reaching Alec’s brain.

“Hold up! One, girl, that is a VERY low bar. No offense to El here, but we need to work on raising your experiences with people not in boxes. And two, what d’yall mean, leave town? Why leave town?”

Eliot sighs, and all the pain and exhaustion he has to be feeling flickers back on his face for a moment before he shoves it away again. “Y’ bought me some time, Hardison, and believe me, I appreciate that, but that guy won’t be the last one to turn up here, and I ain’t havin’ that.”

He’s got a point, but Alec’s never been one to fight bullies on street corners anyway. “Nah, nah, nah, listen, Sergei, he wants to help us, right? He does, because you one scary ass fucker, you know that? You do know that, I can tell, okay, bet you say some terrifying affirmations in the mirror each mornin’—”

“Hardison—”

“My point is, he just needs what we all need: some support, right? Somethin’ to back up an’ prove the story he’s tellin’ them is true.”

“And that if he tells a different story, we’ll hunt down his mother,” Parker’s grin is feral.

“Nooo, we will not be doin’ that, that was a BLUFF, folks. Don’t tell me you’ve never played poker.”

“You mean you can’t hunt her down?” Parker asks.

At the same moment, Eliot mutters, “Better than you,” which is a challenge Alec’s determined to hold him to, so he can’t leave town and that’s that.

“I mean, I’d like to sleep with myself at night, and hunting down some little old lady in Moscow is not gonna help with that, so we need a friendly sort of support — like we got here.” _Just keep talking._ “Like a carrot and stick. Eliot bein’ the stick obviously, man you are _intimidatin’_ covered in blood. Put me down as scared AND horny!” _Or not. Nope. Stop talking, stop talking right now, Alec Hardison, these people do not speak MEME_ _._ “I...meme...it’s, it’s a meme, a…” the only way he can think to explain this is with Star Trek, which is absolutely going to make things worse than the blank looks they’re trading. Well, Parker’s is blank. Eliot looks like his face is receiving several error messages at once, but then he’s had the kind of night where Alec’s not taking that at face value. ( _Ha._ ) “Uhhh, anyway, we just gotta make it a better idea for Sergei to work with us than work with his boss.”

“His boss is the Butcher of Kiev, Hardison!”

Seriously, what world did these two live in before setting up shops _here?_ “That’s—okay that’s some good branding. You got a title like that?”

Eliot makes a sound not unlike an overfull garbage disposal. “My name’s my callin’ card,” he snaps, voice rough. “Look, Sergei is gonna respond to the most immediate threat, all right? In here, that’s _me_. Back there—”

“Digital hellfire is always an immediate threat regardless of location and that is what I’m _offerin’_.” Alec interrupts, trying to ignore the things Eliot’s voice is doing to him. Thank the Lord for baggy sweatpants is all. “Look man, I’m not sure you understand what I can do with a few hours and some Photoshop. All he’s gotta do is show Mr. Butcher-Man a few fluff pieces about your business with an “Eliot Spencer”—” he puts the name in finger quotes— “that looks not quite like you, but close enough that they can see how the mistake happened. And we change the spelling of your name. Maybe two Ls in Eliot? Replace that C in Spencer with an S?”

“How the hell you know how my name’s spelled?”

_Because I googled you. And then some. Property records ain’t exactly private, you know. Googled Parker too, though I sure didn’t find much else beyond her certification to incinerate people._

“And the guy in my freezer?” Parker adds, intrigued. “What are we gonna fake about him?”

“That —” he pauses, blank, ”— that I do not know yet, but—”

“Why are you offerin’?” Eliot interrupts, slightly less belligerent than before. He’s standing close enough to the door frame, that Alec’s reasonably sure he’s leaning against it and pretending not to.

“Because you need help. I can offer it, and it’s the neighborly thing to do,” Alec says and does not add: _Also I desperately want to run my fingers through your hair and I need to know what your voice sounds like first thing in the morning._ Sometimes his mouth actually does have an edit option, _thank god._

“So you’re just…” Eliot looks like his brain is making the same dial-up noise Alec’s was while all the crazy shit was going down, except then had been a completely reasonable time to be lacking processing power, unlike this fairly basic conversation they’re having. Okay, maybe not basic, but the guy seems to not comprehend the option he and Parker chose as one that was even on the table.

“Because you need help,” Alec repeats, as if it’s a simple, easy fact, which it is.

“I don’t—”

 _Fortheloveof—_ “Look, I get that you’re some kind of retired John McClane badass, but two different assholes tried to kill you tonight. That objectively sucks, man. Let us help you.”

“I don’t expect you to,” Eliot says, like they’re both talking past each other.

Hardison offers a shrug, palms open. “Just because you ain’t expectin’ help, don’t mean we can’t offer it. I mean it. You accepted Parker takin’ care of the body, why can’t I help too? Feelin’ left out over here.”

Eliot closes his eyes, breathes in and out. Something gives. Crumbles. Surrenders. It’s not the positive acceptance Alec had hoped for and it makes him angry all over again, at whoever taught Eliot that unbreakable is the only thing worth being. “These...articles...they don’t need to be real?” Eliot asks finally, his eyes still closed.

“If by real you mean do we need to have physical evidence that something actually happened? Not unless Butcher Cassidy is much better at media literacy than I’m assuming he is. Fake news is everywhere, people! And I’m better at it than any Macedonian teenager.”

“That what you do all by yourself, waitin’ on a lone customer to quit jerkin’ off in the corner?” It starts out a challenge, but Eliot can’t quite tame the quirk in his lips.

“You,” Alec replies huffily, fully aware this is Eliot’s way of hastily reassembling the ruins of his pride, “should appreciate me more, Sundance.”

He thinks he sees something desperate and hungry flash in Eliot’s eyes, but then it’s gone and Eliot’s expanding the smirk, slowly raking those blues up and down Alec like he’s a neat gravel walk. “Consider yourself appreciated.”

“I-ah-I do...” ... _have slight whiplash from the direction shift, but never let it be said Alec Hardison does not go with the flow. (Though actually that could be said quite a bit in other contexts…BUT NOT THIS ONE… Okay, yes, this context too, BUT NOT THIS TIME.)_

“Really? Why?” Parker looks back and forth between them, perplexed. “Oh,” she adds, in horrified realization. “This is _flirting_.”

“Consider _that_ a symptom of bein’ knocked upside the head,” Eliot grumbles defensively, brushing back his hair as he touches the lump Parker gave him. The tips of his ears are pink.

“And blood loss,” Parker offers brightly. “Don’t forget the blood loss.”

“Thanks, darlin’, I was, in fact tryin’ to forget that.”

“No, actually, she’s got a point. We should get you fixed up. Seriously, who flirts when they’re bleedin’ out?” _You, apparently. Stop being a fucking idiot, Alec Hardison._

“I’m bleedin’, not bleedin’ out, and I didn’t hear you complainin’ a moment ago.”

“Well, I was a little distracted—”

Parker walks over and lifts Eliot’s shirt without him arguing or threatening to break her wrists. So unfair—

“Okaay that is. Oh. Fuck,” Alec hears himself say, from what feels like a long distance away. He doesn’t like blood in general, but before it was at least slightly divorced from context. It was blood that had already _happened_. 

Parker casually prods at the blood-soaked duct tape. _He wasn’t kidding, he literally duct-taped himself back together, what the actual fuck?_ “That’s not holding anything in, is it?” she asks curiously. “If it pierced the peritoneum…”

“Nah, didn’t get through most of the muscle, guts are still in my gut of their own accord. Bowie knife did it. Jumped back, just not quite far enough. Bit rusty.”

“You or the knife?”

“Me. Been a few years since someone tried to stab me on the regular.” Eliot grimaces, which Alec suddenly understands as both a wince _and_ a grin to make up for the fact that he’s admitting to pain at all.

They’re both bein’ so _casual_. Alec is desperately relieved Parker’s there and actually competent because he promised to help and almost immediately feels as close to fainting at Eliot looks. Closer, probably, since Eliot’s got that pile of crumbled pride to lean up against and Alec’s never had the slightest bit of pride when it comes to being injured.

Parker clicks her tongue. “I can clean and seal it, but you’ll need dressings and bandages. And a lot of antibiotics, if you don’t want to end up _back_ in that box. I don’t have supplies for bodies still concerned with healing.”

“Not that I intend to join them just yet, but I am feelin’ a bit envious of that particular trait.” He gives Parker a smile that makes Hardison’s stomach flip-flop and it’s not even aimed at him. “I got some supplies back at the office —” he steps forward, away from the door jamb, swaying dangerously, then steadying before Hardison, already moving forward, reaches him.

“I’ll get them.” Hardison offers hurriedly. “What’s your —”

“ _No_. I’m goin’. In case anyone’s out there still.”

“What are you gonna do, bleed on them?”

“Damn sight more’n you.”

“Not sure if you meant that to be a threat, but it sure is a fact.”

Eliot glares at him. “Shuddup… are you offering me your _arm??_ You really take bein’ neighborly to an extreme, you know that?”

“My nana raised me right.”

“Your nana approve of your chosen line of work?”

“You know, for a hitman turned landscaper, you’ve got an impressive glass house right there. Shame if anyone were to whack weeds too close to it. And yes, she’s a very supportive woman, and she’d give me an earful if I ditched anyone needin’ a hand.”

Eliot huffs an exasperated sigh as they step out into the street. “What about you, Parker? Why are you stickin’ around?”

She tilts her head considering. “I’m not bored yet.”

“Well, that’s a relief.” Eliot says it in a tone so dry, it must’ve cracked the pavement in front of him. He trips, catching himself on Alec’s arm, and Alec graciously refrains from saying anything, having begun to develop a sense of exactly how many of Eliot’s buttons it’s wise to push, but the guy’s right. He is relieved Parker, so much steadier than either of them currently, is here.

Her presence is almost as much of a relief as the three of them making it to Eliot’s front door without any further threats.


	4. Eliot

The front office is so tidy, he forgot what a wreck he’d made of the back, or maybe that’s just a side effect of the concussion he’s starting to be unable to ignore. The forgetting, not the wreckage, though he’s seeing more spots than space between, so who knows. He’s got a hard head, sure, but apparently Parker’s got a damn good arm, and that urn was fucking _solid_. Slamming his forehead into Sergei’s _really_ hadn’t helped matters. He doesn’t regret the latter and the former was absolutely justified, but fuck he’s _tired_.

 _Nearly were gutted too, remember that?_ For a moment, he loses that piece of the puzzle, but luckily he’s got a ribbon of agony across his torso to remind him. _You demanded to walk over here_.

_Made it, didn’t I?_

“Eliot?” Hardison asks, in the tone of someone who’s repeating themselves. “You with us, man?”

 _Not enough._ He’s usually better than this. Better at holding himself together until he’s somewhere safe. “Stuff’s in my office,” he says, waving a hand in the general direction his office was last time he checked. It looks like a much longer walk than it usually does. “Filin’ cabinet’s locked.”

“Oh goody!” Parker bounces past and he loses track of her, starts to follow.

“I think she’s got that handled. Sit,” Hardison orders, and Eliot’s legs obey before his brain has a chance to argue. Not that his brain’s currently having much luck cobbling together an argument, much less an accurate threat assessment.

By the smell of it, they’re sitting on a pallet of soil bags. _Oh good, I’ve figured out where my ass is, fantastic progress, Spencer._

“Didn’t think to ask this earlier, but you got anyone you want me t’call?”

He starts laughing, which hurts, but also tells him exactly how loopy he’s getting, if the flirting back there hadn’t been evidence enough that he’s losing any and all control over the situation. Not good. “Nah, no one waitin’ up.”

“Okay, what about the crew for tomorrow — who’s in charge when you’re out?”

“I ain’t.”

“Right...”

“Out. I mean. I ain’t out. That ain’t an option,” he explains, and for no particularly good reason and plenty of bad ones, defends his point by adding, “Pop wouldn’t approve.”

Hardison huffs out an exasperated breath, which is fair, because Eliot’s pretty exasperated with himself too, just _saying_ shit like that out loud. “Well, he’s not here and are we talkin’ about the same definition of out? ‘Cause I’m gettin’ some mixed signals here, but you are definitely not gonna be workin’ tomorrow.”

“Today,” Eliot corrects. “It’s today.” At least one thing he’s certain of.

“Then either.”

“I’ll manage. Gotta clean up the evidence, then it’s just phones’n’shit. ‘Less someone calls out sick.”

“Oh, so that’s only somethin’ _other_ people do.” That dangerous, angry _rightness_ is back in Hardison’s tone. Eliot remembers hearing it briefly in Parker’s office, but he can’t remember the context. He shudders slightly. “Parker?!” Alec shouts. Now he’s bein’ _loud_. Too loud.

“I’m just about there! Would’ve been helpful to know _which_ cabinet.”

_It would’ve, wouldn’t it?_

“He got a cell phone in there?”

“Yes, on the desk.”

“Bring that with, will ya?”

“You gonna hack my phone now too?” Eliot manages. It’s too warm in here, and the earthy ripeness of their seat merges with the oddly fruity scent of Hardison, making it much too warm _right here_.

“If I have to.”

Parker comes back and he knows that because suddenly she’s there shining a light in his eyes. It hurts and he’s grateful. “Mmm, living pupils are supposed to react.” She pokes him in the cheek, hard.

“Stop that.”

“You’re concussed.”

“Statin’ the obvious won’t change it.” Eliot tells her. God, she’s perfect. Not like Hardison is perfect. Hardison blazes like the sun, and she’s the cool shade under a tree. _Cypress._ _Cupressus sempervirens._ _Pull yourself together, Spencer, job ain’t done._

Beside him, Hardison lets out another exasperated sigh. “Who’s Jean?” he asks, dragging Eliot back to center.

“Employee. Why?”

“Worked here long?”

“Years. _Why, Hardison._ ”

Hardison hands him the phone, and he automatically swipes the code to unlock it. Squinting at the screen makes his eyes hurt, though there’s no way he’s asking for his glasses on top of everything, and scrolling through the few text messages Jean had sent earlier in the evening, asking about cancelations and other standard stuff, churns his stomach.

_Ohgoddammitfuckihateconcussions._

“ _Back_ —” he manages to warn Parker. Lunch had been well over 12 hours ago, so nothing much comes up but bile, as Parker leaps clear.

“Jean...can...you...handle...things...for...the...next...few...days,” Hardison says pointedly as he types. Low blow, taking advantage of a man puking his guts out like that. “Death...in...the...family. — See I ain’t not even makin’ you acknowledge you’re human. Anythin’ else I need to add?”

Eliot considers knocking the phone from his hands. “I don’t see my family.”

There’s a beat where Eliot can hear any number of things Hardison isn’t saying, but all he does eventually say is, “Does she know that?”

“No.” That would be sharing personal information, and he doesn’t make a habit of doing that. Now, thanks to Hardison, he’s going to have to talk about a dead relative. “Tell her I appreciate it.” It’s not that he doesn’t trust Jean to handle things here. But this...this is all he has. _Right, and that’s real healthy._ _I need a hobby_.

 _You just killed a man and have somehow conned two well-meaning, deeply misguided people into rescuing you from your own incompetence. A_ hobby _ain’t gonna fix you._

“Well, of course I’m gonna tell her that,” Hardison says as he types. Eliot can’t seem to haul his mind back to whatever he’d told Hardison and just has to pray it was something normal. “I’m a gentleman.”

“Who stole my phone.” But he is, is the thing. He’s an overly confident, fast-talking, too-damn-handsome-for-his-own-or-anyone-else’s-good gentleman who’s swooped in to rescue Eliot and even without the head scramble, Eliot’s not prepared for that kind of role reversal. _Don’t be stupid Spencer, you need to_ run _. Let these two weirdos glue you back together and run the moment your head’s back on straight._

“Borrowed,” Alec is saying. Luckily, he follows it up with, “That’s the second phone tonight I haven’t had to hack,” to give Eliot context of what the fuck they’re currently talking about.

“You can hack mine. Preferably to pieces!” Parker offers, with a surprising amount of vitriol. “We need to go somewhere cleaner than actual bags of dirt.”

“My place,” Hardison says in that no-arguments tone that keeps doing uncomfortably pleasing things to Eliot’s insides. “I live up on the third floor of my building.”

“You live above your sex shop?” Eliot asks because otherwise he’s going to be thinking about the words “third floor.”

“Yeah, man, it’s a neat space,” Hardison says easily. “Can you make it there?”

“Need t’ clean—” Eliot reminds him.

“Parker and you go ahead, and I’ll clean up, then head over, _if you can make it there_. No draggin’ her down the stairs ‘cause you can’t ask for help.” Hardison doesn’t seem like the type psychologically capable of cleaning up a crime scene, even if most of the blood here is Eliot’s. _Which is why_ I _should be the one doing it._ But he’s been given an order. Asked if he can carry it out, which means he has to prove he’s able. 

“Yeah. I can make it.” He’s made it through worse. Hardison’s handing Parker keys and telling her a passcode, but Eliot’s attention slip-slides away. He should object to this whole damn thing, but he’s almost positive no one else will be waiting, and if they are, they’ll jump him and Parker, not Hardison. He can handle that, and…

_And?_

And for the first time in a long time, he’s okay with accepting marching orders. Trusts where they’re coming from, even if he shouldn’t. It makes him feel guilty about his plan.

Parker walks faster than he can even think about moving, but she pauses every few steps to wait for him, only semi-impatiently, his oversized med kit hanging from one hand. He appreciates that, oddly enough. Gives him a small goal: _Reach Cypress_.

“You bored yet, darlin’?” he asks her as they step into the cold night again. The chilly, damp air helps ground him, just a little.

“No,” she answers after a substantial bit of thought, or time’s messing with him. “You and Hardison are extremely not-boring.”

“Nah, guess we ain’t. Then why dead people?” He should probably save his breath for the stairs, but it helps distract him and he’s still trying to get a read on her. “Seems like they’d be the most boring people around.”

“No. Dead people don’t talk about baby showers, or what they had for lunch, or traffic, or weather, or the economy.”

“Hmm, good point.” They’re across the lot and at Hardison’s door. He leans against the wall as she navigates the door’s security, steps in, and punches in the code inside.

“He’s got a good security system,” she tells Eliot. “I wish he hadn’t told me the code.”

“He trusts you.”

Parker looks like she doesn’t quite know what to do with that information. “He trusts you too,” she reminds him. “What does that say about him?”

“That he’s a goddamned idiot with no sense,” Eliot grumbles. She laughs as he follows her inside.

“Maybe if I ask him, he’ll reset the security system later. That would be fun.” She pauses to wait for him. “You clearly need a better one. Hardison would install it if you ask him. He seems to know about a lot more tech than just sex things.” That disdain he’d heard before when she’d called out their flirting — _shouldn’t have crossed that line, Spencer_ — is back.

“So all this ain’t your thing, huh?” Another time, he wouldn’t mind looking around the maze of aisles and displays, but right now it feels as if his only anchor in this place is the cool presence of Parker, ebbing and flowing as she moves ahead and waits, moves ahead. Waits.

“It’s like small talk. Makes no sense. I don’t enjoy it.”

He does. He wonders if he can explain the way he hungers for any kind of touch, violent or loving, the way he’s tightly controlled that need for so long he barely has to think about it, just go out to a bar when the itch starts to drive him mad, and he’ll find someone to take him home, unaware of who they’re letting in, and for a time — a night, a week, a month — he can pretend he’s not who he is, be who they think he is. _After I leave here, I’ll need to find some—_

“Is that a swing!?” Parker’s sudden excitement anchors him again. Why the fuck would he tell her any of that? Tell anyone? That’s for him to manage and release, like the valve on a pressure cooker.

He’s not going to do anything stupid. Not with her, she’s made her lack of interest clear, but Hardison’s made _his_ interest very clear...

“I want one!”

“‘M sure he’d be thrilled to give you one,” Eliot says, knowing it’s the truth — he’d seen how Hardison also looks at Parker. Though what Parker wants with a sex swing and no sex...but Eliot’s not so far gone that he’s going to ask about _that_. They’ll figure it out, after he’s out of their way.

They reach the stairway at the back of the store, tucked neatly beside the bondage cave, which Parker’s eyeing in naked curiosity despite her earlier disdain. Waiting on her gives Eliot a chance to catch his breath and wonder at how strange this night has been. At how strange these two people are, and he can’t decide which is more odd. They’re like two sides of the same coin.

Parker turns, illuminated in the red accent lights of the cave. “Are you ready to climb?” she asks softly, and, for the first time, offers her hand. Eliot has some idea of what that costs her and hates himself for the lie he’s telling her by taking it.


	5. Parker

She doesn’t like living skin. The way it shifts, warms, cools, twitches, sweats. It’s unpredictable. Brief contact, like pokes and prods are best. The people living inside skin are unpredictable too, so the same rules apply. A therapist once tried to explain to her that touch was a form of communication, which makes sense, but she’s never been interested in learning the language.

Action. That’s the only language that really means anything.

So.

She offers her hand. That’s an action. Eliot accepts it. Action. His hand is sticky with sweat and blood, and it shakes a little, but all of those touches are incidental. She instinctively squeezes it. Action. Anyway, this is all practicality. There’s no banister on the narrow stairs, and she doesn’t want him to fall.

_Why? Does it make a difference? Say he falls. Cracks his already cracked head. Dies. And I’m back in my element. Where I know what to do._

_No._

_Why not?_

_Just. No. You prefer him alive._ She does. She prefers the crinkle in the corner of his eyes, and the way he regards her with wary respect, and even the way expressions chase across his face like clouds on a windy day, leaving her to assign them shape and meaning. Usually she hates that, so she’s not quite sure what to make of this development, but she knows what his face would look like, still and stiff, and just imagining it sets her heart running.

“Thought that was rhetorical,” Eliot says drily as she’s trying to reconcile this new sensation. Right, he’s waiting on her. “But yeah, let’s get this over with.”

They start to climb, and Parker doesn’t reclaim her hand. It reminds her to go slow, that she’s here with permission, not sneaking in to see what valuables she can find. (Not that a sex shop would ever have occurred to her as a mark, _ew, gross_.)

 _Here with permission._ There’s a warmth spreading through her chest, accelerating the skidding thrum of her heart and she doesn’t really know what to do with either. She stops on the landing. Eliot feels like he could use a pause, his hand slick in hers, breathing heavy.

“Some...thin’… wrong?” he asks her, earning him a raised pair of eyebrows. “Apart from me, I mean.” His smile is flickerfast and mostly a wince. He drops her hand to lean up against the wall. “I know I’m wrong,” he says, and she’s not sure if the words are light because he’s panting or because it’s a joke.

“No,” she says, which is true, but _not_ , though she’s still waiting on the defining features of that not — knot? — to make themselves known, so she can untangle them. She flexes her fingers, cooling as the transferred sweat on them dries. That should bother her more, but it doesn’t. It's n intriguing sensation.

Eliot’s also staring at her hand, and he looks like he maybe regrets taking it, but she’s not good at faces that move as much as his does, so maybe not. It’s frustrating. “‘M ready. Let’s keep goin’,” he says. She’s not sure if she should offer her hand and he doesn’t reach out to grab it, but he sways sideways when he pushes off the wall, and she catches at his arm instinctively.

They stay like that and climb. At the second floor: a wide-open space mostly full of _stuff_ that can’t all be merchandise for downstairs, they pause again, Eliot bracing himself on his knees.

“What was that swing and those ropes for?” she asks, calling it back to mind. It had looked fun. Like something she could hang from a high beam and just sit in. She smiles at the thought.

“I ain’t havin’ that conversation with you, Parker,” Eliot snaps low and abrupt.

Her smile drops. “Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t want you gettin’ uncomfortable and runnin’ before you glue me back together!” He straightens, looks like he regrets it.

The warmth shifts, takes on a new, different intensity. “I’m not _scared_. This isn’t about being scared.”

“That ain’t what I said.” He makes eye contact and she meets it, unblinking. People don’t like when she does that, but Eliot’s matched hers before now. Now, his eyes flick away. “Look, Hardison, he likes you. And he sells that stuff. Ask him.”

Well, now he’s just being ridiculous. “He doesn’t _like_ me, he likes you! You _flirted!_ ” Maybe ignoring the obvious is a symptom of the concussion she gave him.

“Hey, I heard you while I was in that box, I ain’t the only one flirtin’ with him tonight.”

 _No, I wasn’t_ , she thinks, indignant, but somehow she blurts out, “I didn’t mean to!” instead.

“WELL NEITHER DID I!” he yells, draws a shuddering breath in the dead silence that follows, and leans back, thunking his head lightly against the wall. It’s a stupid thing to do with a concussion, but she’s pretty sure he knows that and prefers being stupid. “I shouldn’t’ve done that.”

“I thought he liked it.”

“Yeah. ‘Xactly. C’mon, I gotta get movin’ or I won’t.”

She holds out her left hand, and he takes it, grunting in surprise when she lifts his arm up, settles it across her shoulders. “Okay, let’s go.”

“If I fall—”

“I’ll land on top of you, so don’t, or you’ll regret it.”

He huffs out that half-groan, half-laugh she’s beginning to like, just a little. “Yes ma’am.”

They climb.

“Why shouldn’t you flirt with Hardison?” She’s pretty sure he’ll say he has no breath to explain, or that he won’t talk about this with her, but he doesn’t.

“We ain’t… compatible.”

“Oh. _Oh._ ”

“No, not like that. _That_ ain’t what’s sendin’ me t’ hell.”

“You believe in hell?”

“Well, I ain’t goin’ anyplace good, darlin’,” he shoots back, like this is fact that ought to be obvious to both of them. Parker’s never believed in an afterlife, though. In the end, there’s fire or worms, unless you wanted to get creative. “Though when that day comes,” he says softer, loose, like the swish of the breeze through her cypresses, “I’d wish it was you sendin’ me on my way.”

She’s put him in a cremation box once tonight without any issue, but now she doesn’t want to think about that. Not while his arm is warm on the back of her neck. “What makes people compatible?” she asks instead.

“Wantin’ the same things.” They reach the landing and keep going, though she can feel the stumble in his steps. Better to get it over with. “Like kids, or money, or just a fun night. Few nights. Maybe a month.”

“That’s how long your people patience lasts?” It sounds like a long time to her.

“That’s how long before...”

...three steps...

“...they start askin’ personal questions...”

...two steps...

“...that I don’t feel inclined t’ answer.”

They stagger onto the third floor. Eliot’s knees buckle, but she’s steady. On his other side, the wall gains a new bloody handprint.

“I think you maybe jumped over the personal questions by dumping a dead body at our feet,” she points out as they move forward into Hardison’s loft.

Under his breath Eliot mutters, “Also he’s got _horrible_ taste.”

Parker’s never been interested in interior design, but Hardison’s does seem excessive.

There’s a lot of lights. Not in useful places to provide illumination, these are all underneath things, and shifting rainbows of color. They both jump when a brighter set of overhead lights turns on the moment they step forward. Still, she likes that it’s open, even if most of the surfaces are covered in tangles of wires and sleek black boxes. At one end, past the kitchen, she spots a bed with weirdly shiny red sheets, surrounded by a half-open curtain.

“Couch,” Eliot suggests, also staring at the bed in horror. It’s round. Like a giant nest.

They pause at the kitchen, Eliot insisting on opening the fridge, which is mostly filled with orange soda, and the freezer, which is filled with pizza rolls. “The fuck is wrong with him?”

No frozen peas, or anything else loosely ice pack related, but the ice maker in the door crushes cubes, so they fill a bag, before continuing on.

The couch is leather, an old, lumpy, solid piece. “It’ll be easy to clean blood off,” Parker says, then realizes Eliot may not want to be reminded of his leakage issues, but Eliot just grunts in agreement, toppling slowly onto its surface as Parker eases his arm back over her head.

He breathes out, closing his eyes and pressing the ice to the side of his face. “Fuck. Me.”

“We’re not compatible,” she tells him, voice flat, and he cracks an eye open to be sure she’s making a joke. She smiles back, then bends to rummage through his bag.

“You ever done this before?” Eliot asks. “On someone still breathing?” he clarifies after a moment.

Parker tests the grip of the duct tape not loosened by blood and sweat. It lives up to its reputation so the next part is going to _hurt_. “Yes.” She’s surprised at how steady her voice sounds and almost stops there, to prove to Eliot she isn’t uncomfortable and liable to run. “It didn’t work.”

His eyes snap open. “You mind clarifyin’? I know you can do this Parker. I can talk ya through it, if you need me to.”

He’s liable to pass out at some point, so she’s not entirely confident in that promise, until he meets her eyes and holds them. He will. He’s asking if he needs to. So she tells him the truth. “The only living person I’ve treated is me and I nearly killed myself, but I know why and you’re better supplied. Does that help?”

“Helluva lot harder puttin’ your own self back together,” Eliot remarks softly. “Tell me. If you want.”

“It’s not a nice story,” Parker warns. “There’s pus.”

He snorts. “I can handle it. Go ahead an’ treat the tape like a bandaid. I knew puttin’ it on it would suck comin’ off.”

“Would’ve worked better if you hadn’t moved so much after.” The cold muzzle of the gun presses against her skull again, just for a moment. “But I’m glad you did.”

“I put you in danger. Wasn’t about t’ leave you there,” he says, and she can’t read his face at all, but he _hadn’t_ left her there, so she believes him.

“You wouldn’t have been the first.” He doesn’t say anything, not even as she starts working at the tape, and Parker needs something to distract her from the sticky slickness, so she starts talking. “I lived rough. As a kid. Runaway. Stole what I needed.” Eliot groans as she pries a section free. “Boosted cars for a bit, running with a crew—that’s how I knew your corpse was Russian mafia.”

“Mmm, makes sense. How’d you go straight?”

“Caseworker in juvie. Suggested if I didn’t like live people, maybe I’d prefer dead ones. Found a mortuary science program that would accept me.”

“And how’d you end up in juvie? You don’t seem like the type that gets caught.”

She appreciates the compliment, so she continues. “Hurt myself, going over a chainlink fence. Not even barbed.” She’s still annoyed about that. Pulls harder at the next piece of tape than strictly necessary. “Gashed open my shoulder, deep.” Eliot hisses, possibly at her tape-pulling, possibly at her shoulder. “I tried. Tried to clean it and keep it clean, tried to glue it back together, then tried stitching it with dental floss. Tried to steal antibiotics and pain meds.” She’s surprised at how steady her voice sounds, how steady her hands are, remembering that pain.

Parker looks up and sees Hardison standing in the doorway. How long had he been there? “How’s it goin’?” he asks softly. “Didn’t want to interrupt your concentration.”

“It’s goin,’” Eliot groans.

“Need anything?”

“Nah—”

“Yes, water, orange soda, and pickle juice,” Parker tells Hardison over Eliot’s denials.

“Girl, that is the _worst_ cocktail I have ever heard of.”

Eliot lifts his head an inch and looks at her appraisingly. “No, she’s right. But NOT all together.”

Hardison brings the supplies, wincing at the bloody mess, and sets them on the coffee table Parker had shoved over to the side, to give her space to work.

“Sorry ‘bout your couch,” Eliot says to the ceiling.

Hardison waves a hand, dismissing it. “Fuck the couch. I care about _you_.”

She feels Eliot's breath hitch and doesn’t blame him one bit. Hardison’s... _a lot_. He’s nice, but he’s a lot of nice and she’s not sure what to do with all the excess.

Most of the tape is off his front, but she still needs to remove the strand fully wrapped around his torso, and finish cutting the shirt away. “Time to sit up.”

Eliot sighs. “Okay.” He doesn’t object to the hand Hardison offers. “Okay,” he repeats, panting, once he’s tenuously upright. “Fluids first. Gimme the pickle juice, and dilute that orange shit or I _will_ puke again.”

“You dare insult the nectar of the gods?” Hardison gasps in mock horror that makes her giggle in spite of everything. He holds the open pickle jar up. There’s a straw in it.

Eliot rolls his eyes, but accepts it, and the antibiotics Hardison gives him, and the diluted orange soda chaser. “My stomach hates you right now, Parker, but good call.”

“I told you. I know what went wrong last time.” _I didn’t have this incredible med kit for one thing. But fluids, sugar, and electrolytes are also important._

“Okay,” he says a third time, like he's mentally bracing himself. “Do it, and don’t stop till it’s done.”

She does it. Hardison sits on the couch and holds Eliot’s hands to keep him upright. He talks at them both, but she's tuned him out and wonders if Eliot has as well. At one point Eliot makes a horrific strangled sound that should have just been a yell, but she’s pretty sure he’s trying not to scare them and doing a terrible job at it. He slumps the moment she’s finished, dead to the world.

Well. Not _literally_. Important distinction, that.

Hardison definitely has a moment though. “Oh fuck — he ain’t dead is he? Fuck, I shoulda just called 911 and not listened to you crazy people—”

“Hey! Who’s the expert on dead people here?” She needs Eliot’s wrist to check his pulse, and she needs him flat again, not this boneless slouch Hardison’s keeping him in by gripping his hands.

“You. Right. You are definitely the expert. I am _very_ outta my depth.”

She’s feeling out of her depth too, but admitting that won’t make her feel better, so she doesn’t bother. “He’s not dead, but he dropped his ice,” she says to Hardison’s hands, which always seem to need to be doing something. “I’ll handle this, and you take care of the lump I gave him.” It’s not vital, but he moves as urgently as if it is.

“On it.” He guides Eliot gently back until he’s lying prone, then circles behind her to pick up the baggie of ice. After a moment of hesitation, he ever so gently lifts Eliot’s head and sits with it propped up on his thigh. “That’s okay, right? I hate lyin’ flat, makes me all nauseous and stuffed up.”

Maybe Eliot’s right. Maybe they aren’t “compatible.” She doesn’t know much about people. But she knows when two shapes fit together. Knows what a body looks like at peace. “Yes,” she says. “Stay still.”

He nods, watching her begin the process of cleaning the long gash. “You did this on yourself?”

“I had to. Wasn’t anyone else. It got infected though. It got infected and I… got sloppy.” Her hands shake slightly, now. Maybe this isn’t what she should be thinking about as she starts sealing the wound in front of her, not the one from years ago which had festered, hot and painful. She remembers screaming when they handcuffed her, caught trying to steal from that pharmacy. Remembers shivering hot and cold in the cell, so, _so_ thirsty. Remembers a woman, that case worker, shouting and thinking she was shouting at _her_ , but she couldn’t find the energy to open her eyes—

Hardison’s hand, cold from the ice, touches her cheek, snapping her back to the present. “Hey. You with me?” He squeezes her shoulder, healed now, but she can feel the pull of twisted scar tissue under his fingers.

“Yeah. Sorry.”

Eliot shifts slightly, returning to consciousness, but Hardison’s eyes don’t leave her face.

“You ain’t got nothin’ to be sorry for,” he says earnestly. “We all just doin’ the best we can with what we got, and sometimes we’ve got nothing or less than even that. Ain’t your fault the world bit a chunk out of you, or Eliot’s that it ripped a hole through him.”

“What about you?” she asks. Eliot makes sense, but Hardison—

“I got lucky. I have someone who healed my hurts, and I was able to heal hers, later on. It’s that simple. Y’all so confused about why I wanna help, and it’s cause I’m pissed at whoever and whatever taught you to expect different.”

“I’ve torn plenty of my own holes through people,” Eliot whispers, voice thick. “Just so you’re aware.”

“Nah, man, I figured you and your old mafia buddies just met up for lemonade and cookies and the _fight to the death thing_ was inci- _fuckin_ -dental!” Hardison turns back to Eliot, gently brushing the hair from his forehead, the gesture at odds with his exasperated tone.

Eliot turns his head away from both of them. “I was gonna run,” he confesses. “Still should, it’s the smart thing t’do.”

“Were you gonna do that without tellin’ us?” Hardison asks, almost too lightly.

He’s still not looking at them. “Yeah.”

“You still plannin’ on that course of action?”

There’s a very long pause. “Not unless I’m a shittier person than I like to think I’ve become.”

“Good, cause I really’d like to kiss you, and shitty people don’t qualify for my kisses.”

Eliot turns his face back. “Like they’re all that great—” he begins, before being thoroughly silenced.

Parker sighs, figures at least they have a distraction they enjoy, and threads a suture needle. The gash is sealed, but it’s long enough some stabilizing stitches won’t hurt. Figuratively speaking.

“HNG.”

Parker’s not sure which of them made the sound, but they’re both glaring at her when she looks up, leaving the needle stuck through Eliot’s skin. “What?”

Hardison rubs at his mouth gingerly. “Look, when I said all that stuff about the world takin’ a bite outta you, I meant it, and I know I ain’t in the same trauma league as you two, but also maybe don’t stab Eliot with a needle while my tongue is in his mouth? I need it!”

“Maybe that’ll teach you not to talk so much.” Parker tells him, rolling her eyes. “And hold your horniness, I’m not done yet.”

“Yes ma’am,” Eliot says, voice somewhat strangled.

“What happened to ‘we ain’t compatible’ anyway?” she mutters, turning back to her task.

“Oh, _we ain’t_ , ain’t we?” Hardison says archly, his fingers buried deep in Eliot’s thick hair.

Eliot lets out a soft moan, but she’s pretty it isn’t in pain. Or not only in pain. “Don’t move,” she orders him. “Hardison, behave yourself or remove yourself.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hardison echoes Eliot, only half as repentant, his cheeky smile breaking through. “Order me around all you like. I promise I’ll be good.”

“Parker likes your ropes,” Eliot offers, possibly as punishment for her jabs. “And that swing you got downstairs.” He finds her eyes, holds them. “Only _if_ you want to and _what_ you want to, no more.”

Above him, Hardison nods seriously, cheekiness quickly stashed away. “I feel like we’ve been slingshotting around the sun tonight, so listen. The three of us are gonna have a long conversation before anything happens between any of us. And we ain’t havin’ that tonight, because it ain’t even night anymore, and also I’m not entirely clear how Eliot’s still conscious and talkin’ in full sentences, but I’m expecting that function to cease any moment.”

“Mmmph.” Eliot agrees.

“That’s what I thought. Parker?”

She’s not entirely sure what he’s asking. “I just have to tape the bandage down—”

Hardison's beaming at her, eyes so bright, she ducks her head. “You’re _amazing_ , you know that, right? And my apologies. I shoulda clarified. I’ve got Eliot effectively trapped here because he’s half-dead and also apparently extremely susceptible to head scritches and guilt.”

“Mmrph.”

“And I know that ain’t your thing, but I also want you to know, you’re welcome here. Any time. And I’m hoping you’ll stick around.”

 _Why? I'm not compatible at all. Even if I do like that swing. And money._ But Eliot had said he and Hardison weren’t compatible and she’s pretty sure he was very wrong about that and knows it.

“What makes people compatible?" She poses the question to Hardison now. Eliot shifts, like he’s waiting for the answer before succumbing to unconsciousness.

“Care,” Hardison says, after enough of a pause that she knows he thought about the answer, but not so long that he’d never thought about it before. “If you don’t care about someone, their needs, wants, fears, hopes, and everything else that comes with any person, then there’s nothing to build on. And they gotta care back. Everything else comes after that.”

She’d been expecting something more specific, like Eliot’s list. She pokes him. “Is he right?” she demands over his groan.

“Ain’t wrong,” Eliot mumbles.

Which isn’t quite the same thing, but it sort of is, too. Hardison’s answer just seems so much simpler. A much more slippery slope, while Eliot filled his with rocks he keeps hitting.

_You like slippery slopes. They’re fun and exciting._

And she’s already sliding down this one, without realizing she’d begun. She tries to imagine stopping now, going back to her box and her ashes like tonight never happened. Pretend these two are just Angry Tree Man and Cookie Man. Forget the warmth of Eliot’s hand and Alecs’s eyes.

“I owe Alec a new couch anyway,” Eliot mutters, eyes dipping closed. “Might as well get a big one. This one’s comfortable, though. Good resting place.” His eyes briefly flutter open, just to find hers again. “Try it out. Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

In her back storage room, there are dozens of unclaimed boxes of ashes. Waiting for people who care enough to claim them. In the meantime, she is their resting place. If she’d died before tonight, she might have joined them there, gathering dust, with no one to care.

_But they do._

No one’s removed Eliot’s shoes yet. It’s something to do while she considers. Parker sits at the end of the couch, carefully undoes the laces, Eliot sighs as she pulls the boots off, and the pit of her stomach warms in response. It feels like an answer.

“Thanks, Cypress.”

She’s been given nicknames before, but never any she cared for. “Cypress,” Parker whispers, trying it out and not really expecting a reply, since Eliot seems to have finally succumbed to sleep. She pulls her feet up, loosely tangling them in his, catches Hardison’s eye. There’s a blanket on the back of the couch and they each grab an end, pulling it to cover Eliot and her. 

“Cemetery tree.” His voice is barely a whisper. “ _Cupressus sempervirens_. Of the family _Cupressaceae_. _Sempervirens_. Evergreen.”

Hardison strokes his cheek. “Sleep now,” he says, and Eliot does.

Watching them, she’s not sure if this thing they’ve found will grow like her cypresses or if Eliot’s first instinct was right and it will die, flame into nothing but ash, gases, shards of bone. He’s the one who knows how to grow things. She only knows the ashes. So many packaged endings, some shelved, and more handed carefully over to wet-eyed people, who stroke the box with the same tenderness Hardison just did. She’d studied grief in school, learned it was normal, though it had been so long since she’d packaged all her grief up and buried it deep within her, that she’s never wanted to exhume those particular remains.

“You said, ‘normal is what works for you,’” Parker reminds Hardison. He nods, eyes soft. “My normal’s pretty weird,” she says, as a warning.

Hardison smiles. “That’s okay. So is mine. And his. Life is pretty weird in general, don’tcha think?”

 _Yes,_ Parker agrees. _Yes, it is._

_THE END._

**Author's Note:**

> Poppet, et al, I hope you enjoyed :P
> 
> I tried for reasonable medical accuracy, but any errors are mine or fudges for story. Cremation info should all be accurate! I know very little about sex shops, but I happen to work at a community college with a mortuary science program, which made this AU pretty dang fun to write.
> 
> Kudos and Comments are always appreciated! Come yell at me at pagerunner.tumblr.com.


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